


Blood of the Wound

by DayStar



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Brothers, Daryl Has Issues, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 14:55:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3733084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DayStar/pseuds/DayStar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was gonna die, but Merle was his brother, his brother was at his back and his family was safe and far, far away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood of the Wound

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little fic I wrote from Daryl's PoV, during the brothers' fight at Woodbury. My first TWD fic, and can I just say that I am only recently a (huge) fan? Shoulda started watching this show sooner, but I'll just have to be happy writing a ton of stuff for it now.

Rough and thick, the bag covering his head did a good job of smothering the words as they got closer, but Daryl could still hear the swell of voices, ugly and hoarse. His breath was coming in pants – he couldn’t seem to get enough air through the coarse fabric. Didn’t help that some asshole had slugged him in the gut as soon as he’d tried to pull away from the hands forcing him to his feet.

Didn’t help that he was scared, neither.

Someone gave him another rough shove and he barely caught himself before falling flat on his face. “Best keep off me if you wanna keep your hands,” he snarled through the hood, and it was all bravado, as empty as his lungs. The way the men around him laughed didn’t even piss him off.

The voices were getting louder, and there was one that was clearer than the rest. Daryl still couldn’t quite make out the words the man was shouting. There was lightning in his veins and thunder in his chest, and he couldn’t hear anything over the storm fit to wake the dead inside his head. Outside it, too. His choked laugh was a mangled, short lived thing.

He was afraid. Jesus Christ, he ain’t never been so scared before. It even had a fucking taste, dry and stale on his tongue.

It wasn’t getting the best of him though. No Dixon ever cried or begged, and he blinked his eyes furiously, gave a few unsteady yanks at the hands tugging and guiding him. They let him go and he staggered, off balance and surprised. Someone else grabbed him in a grip that wasn’t just strong – it was cruel, digging into the muscle of his arm with bruising force, wrenching him closer even as the hood was torn off.

“Merle’s own brother!”

Finally he could hear over the pounding of his heart, and he shook his head, getting rid of the feeling of cotton pressed over his ears even as his eyes adjusted to the real lighting. It didn’t take Daryl a second to dismiss the crowd – like a bunch of country bumpkins at a fair, gasping at a blue ribbon – and find Merle. His brother’s face was stone, all rigid lines, but Daryl had seen that before, had seen it from the second their father took a belt to Merle’s back to the day he learned their mum burnt up.

Turned out his breathing wasn’t quite under control, and when the guy holding him gave a shove, he staggered again before finding his balance. His eyes flickered then, away from Merle, away from the sick relief in his gut, away from the thought that wouldn’t leave his head. _‘Least I saw ‘em before I died._

There wasn’t no getting out of this. He scanned the area with the gaze of a cornered predator, and there weren’t hope to be found. Too many guns, too many guards, hands tied too tight, the fences too far away to get to, and –

Andrea. If he’d been punched in the stomach again, he wouldn’t have been as winded. She was sitting in the crowd, just like the rest of the mob, and if her face was pale, it weren’t doing him no fucking good, was it? His eyes slid away, the betrayal pooling in his gut with all the other hurts, and he took in a few ragged breaths, trying to ignore it, trying to find Merle’s indifference.

Daryl might have been a redneck, but he wasn’t simple minded. As the guy with the messed up eye moved around him, he knew he must be the Governor. Way he spouted off just about confirmed that, too.

“What should we do with them, huh?”

That’s when the baying started up, and the dogs began to drool for some blood and fun.

“Kill them!”

“Get rid of them!”

“Murderers!”

“Kill them now!”

If his mouth hadn’t been so dry, he would have spat, but as it was Daryl just shifted his weight, trying to keep down the fear. He managed to meet the twisted expressions of the pack for a second, two, three, but then the weight of their hate was too much and he looked back to Merle, trying to find comfort in his brother’s steady presence. He tried to drown out the people who wanted him to die when they didn’t know who he was.

Maybe Rick coulda talked ‘em down. Daryl wanted to say something. He weren’t no murderer, he knew that for sure. But his throat was tight and he’d never been no good at talking and ‘sides, he’d been here before. Saw people get each other all excited, paint a line in the sand for Us and Them. He’d done it before, too, when he was drunk and angry and just wanted to take something out on someone. Talking wouldn’t‘ve done no good for him, either.

He’d forgot what it was like to be hated, and it was in that moment that he realized why he was so afraid. Before – before all of this shit happened he’d had people threaten to kill him. Mostly Merle’s asshole friends, or enemies. It changed by the day. But he’d just be losing his life, and his life was shit, anyways. Who was stupid enough to be scared of losing trash? He hadn’t been, anyways.

It was different when you _had_ something to lose. His group, his – Carol and Rick and Beth and Carl and Little Ass Kicker and – he’d finally found Merle and –

Jesus Christ, he didn’t want to die.

The crowd’s chanting thudded into his body like the rocks some of the neighborhood boys used to throw, and he moved restlessly on his feet, his ears ringing, trying not to picture what would come next. Trying not to picture the gun pointed at his head – or worse, at Merle’s. Trying not to see the way they’d crumple under the bullets while these bastards whooped like they were watching a Sunday night football match. Hell, they’d probably be spitting tobacco into tins if they could.

It thinned his lips, the thought of his dad sitting in the stands with a stupid, drunk grin on his face, and he stood straighter under the jeers, met Merle’s eyes and kept himself breathing. He wasn’t going to die crying. The Dixons were many things, but they sure as hell weren’t cowards. Against the tears, against the fear, his gaze flickered back up, scanned the crowd, and if he couldn’t be defiant, ‘least he weren’t ducking his head like no coon to a master.

The Governor was saying something to Merle. It took him a second to comprehend what it was over the screaming. “You wanted your brother. Now you got him.”

Which was when Daryl seriously considered trying to head-butt the dressed up cock to death, but too late; he moved away. Andrea was shouting at the Governor but didn’t seem to be about to persuade him to do nothing, and Daryl figured the end was about to shut the lights out. He shifted again, his courage as flighty as the squirrels he used to hunt, and reminded himself that at least he’d helped rescue Glenn and Maggie, bought time for the rest of ‘em to escape. He’d done something with his life.

That helped a little bit.

Except then one of the henchmen was cutting through the bindings on his wrists, he was shrugging more firmly into his jacket and the Governor was talking to Merle about proving loyalty or some shit. And then Daryl remembered that this couldn’t possibly end with him feeling good about himself because no father or Father ever tried to spell it out that way, and the Governor kept right on talking in his ugly Southern drawl.

“Prove it to us all. Brother against brother.” The audience had quieted, though some prick gave a snigger at that. “Winner goes free. Fight! To the death.” More subdued sounds of approval, but Daryl didn’t look at them.

He looked at his feet, risked a side glance at Merle. Back to his feet. To Merle. He felt like a little kid again, like nothing had changed, like the first time he’d shoplifted and gotten caught and kept glancing at Merle, asking him what to do without saying anything at all. Asking him not to bail out. His brother hadn’t left him then.

When Merle turned away, lifted his good hand to the yelling crowd, it felt like things had changed after all.

 _You left him, you stupid sonofabitch. Left him to die,_ Daryl told himself, bile in his throat. _What the hell you expect to happen?_

“Ya’ll know me!” his brother shouted to the excited group – and it seemed like they did, like they knew him well, and Daryl didn’t let himself wonder why as Merle came closer. Didn’t let himself wonder why his brother wasn’t giving him a second glance. “I’m gonna do what I gotta do, to prove-”

Daryl could honestly say the first punch took him off guard. He folded around Merle’s fist – weak hand or no, his brother had turned into a fucking Southpaw. It wasn’t until he met the ground that Daryl realized his brother hadn’t just hit him; he’d hit him as hard as he could. The ringing was back in full force, his stomach was heaving and the gritty sand was cold and hard on his palm as he tried to heft himself back up.

The second blow – a vicious kick to his ribs – was still a shocker, like he thought the first was a mistake or something. It rolled him over, pain throbbing where Merle’s boot had landed, but that pain weren’t a candle compared to the fire that was burning him up, turning everything to charred nothing. He wondered, blearily, if his mother mighta felt this way, before Merle was kicking him again, and again, and again. The moan that came from his lips shamed him, because Merle probably thought he was a pussy, and that – that really pissed him off.

When his brother leaned down to grab at his shoulders, Daryl let himself react. His hand clenched into a fist, and the next thing he knew Merle was staggering away and his knuckles were stinging from contact. Daryl rolled to his feet – found he didn’t hurt as much as he thought he should have – and had just enough time to see the walkers being led in before he was rushing Merle, years of fighting with his bro stomping through head, _rage_ stomping through his head.

They collided and Daryl ended up on the bottom, his hands wrapped around Merle’s throat, squeezing but not as hard as they could, not as hard as they should if he wanted to survive. Except – except this was Merle, this was his brother, and he wasn’t about to fucking kill his brother for some sick fucks to get off.

Even if his brother was planning on killing him.

“You really think this asshole’s gonna let you go?!” He spat the words out even as Merle’s fingers gripped his collar, struggling to find reason, struggling to believe and not believe that Merle really was trying to win this fight.

“Just follow my lead, little brother,” Merle gritted around the hands clutching his throat. “We’re getting out of this, right _now._ ”

And he was suddenly hauling Daryl to his feet, snatching him away from the rabid clutch of a walker, and Daryl was lurching, finding his bearings to face the walkers. And when Daryl put his back to Merle’s, it was like the doubt had never even existed, because this was right, this was where they needed to be, and it didn’t matter that they were going to die, because at least he was going to die knowing his brother hadn’t abandoned him at the end.  

The first walker’s cheek gave way with a soft, wet sound, but it didn’t stop the dead ‘un from trying to snap at his hand. He shoved it away, into the crowd, trying to give them something to think about, but more were coming, led on by their handlers. At the back of his mind, panic, but Daryl wasn’t no stranger to a fistfight, and with Merle covering his blind spot he moved confidently, strongly, ready to bash all their brains out. The adrenaline was singing in his blood, made far stronger by his joy, and he smashed his fist into the next walker with something akin to pleasure.

He was gonna die, but Merle was his brother, his brother was at his back and his family was safe and far, far away.

A shot rang out, bullet taking down a walker. Another, taking down its handler. As the lights were blown out, plunging the area into semi-darkness, smoke began to fill the air, the telltale hiss indicating thrown grenades. He didn’t need no light to know who had come, and the relief made him stumble away from Merle, just for a second, his fists still up, looking for something to fight. A second later, sense thudded into his head and he turned back.

“Merle!” he yelled, “come on!” and his brother stood up from the walker he’d pummeled into a paste and ran after him. They jogged through the haze, and Daryl saw some asshole using his crossbow like it belonged to him. Anger surged – turned out his temper wasn’t quite in check – and he tore the crossbow away, heard a thump that announced Merle had whacked the guy. His lips turned up vindictively, and on he ran.

Suddenly Rick was there, gesturing with a light, and with a friend ahead, his brother behind, Daryl let himself believe for the first time that night – maybe for the first time ever – that everything was going to work out okay.   


End file.
